Waiting for the Music
by Diary
Summary: AU. Sebastian Smythe's a mob boss. David Karofsky is an FBI agent. WIP.


Disclaimer: I do not own Glee.

Author's Notes: I Americanised my spelling in this fic. Realize instead of realise, and so forth.

…

"We all know why we're here," Captain Donatello says, tiredly, body language echoing the fatigue. White, age 54, height of 5'4'', weight undetermined but falling into the overweight category, straight, dark blonde hair cut above the ears and off the neck, green eyes, brown glasses, standard uniform, shoes, and socks, a small scar on the left side of the nose.

"Eighteen of my people were killed," Miogi Hampton snaps, barely restraining himself from lunging. Of Asian descent with short, straight black hair, age 35, height 5'9'', weight undetermined but solid without visibly falling into the overweight category, green contact lenses, burr cut, broken wrist in cast, white shirt, black slacks and belt, brown dress shoes with matching shoes, and a mole on the left side of the upper neck.

Interestingly, Sebastian Smythe's body language is relaxed and consistent, leaning against the chair, almost slouching, head at eye-level, with a small smirk playing against the lips. David Karofsky makes a note of that. White, age 28, height of 6'2'', weight undetermined but slim and toned, short, straight, reddish-brown hair, eyeshade falling between green and hazel-green brown, barely visible freckles, charcoal gray suit, black shirt, no tie or belt, white socks, black shoes, and manicured nails.

"Actually," Smythe says, voice vaguely amused, "I don't know why I'm here. Your people, Mr Hampton, went after my people. My people survived. Either teach yours better offense, or teach them to learn when to retreat when it is obvious the targets are good at defense. Captain Donatello, I make sure my people don't traffic sex or guns, we don't use children or pregnant women for mules, and the civilians we go after are the same type the state goes after with a pointlessly sterilized needle full of lethal drugs. We don't sell to people who can't pay, which rules out the made-up children your department is trying oh-so-hard to protect. And while your lies may work on the majority of the public, we both know addicts are more likely to destroy themselves trying to get the next fix than they are to harm others in the pursuit of it."

"Unless," he continues, "you mean emotionally, in which case, I can give you a list of half the closeted gays in this county. The former are either slowly committing suicide or breaking the hearts of their fanatical loved ones, who know, just as the public knows that recreational drug use is a crime against humanity, that same-sex relationships is destroying civilized society. We all know that vice crimes are outdated and needlessly hurt many, many innocent people. Typically, they're victimless, and when they aren't, there are already laws in place to punish the people who committed actual harm. If you're still in office when this country finally comes to its senses, I'd be happy to work with you in minimizing bad batches, setting up safe injection sights, and going after the people who do use narcotics in the aid of sex trafficking."

"Now, I have much more interesting places to be. Is that all, or do the two of you need to impotently vent? The truth is, no agreement will be reached today."

Biting his tongue, David waits. He'd been briefed: Smythe was charismatic and presented himself as fearless. He'd been briefed, but when it comes to people like Smythe, being briefed is never anywhere near enough preparation for the real thing.

Hampton jumps up, followed a second later by the captain. He towers menacingly over Smythe, and though the other man's body braces for impact, there's no sign of fear in the body's stance or in facial expression.

"Hampton, the immunity only lasts so far. Touch him, and I arrest you for assault," Captain Donatello says, almost tonelessly.

Scowling, Hampton takes a deep breath, knocks the table over, and storms off.

"If you really wanted to arrest him, you would have let him hit me," Smythe notes, and David has no idea if he's serious or simply trying to drive the captain into taking a running jump off the building. Standing up, he picks the table back up, pushes both chairs in, and offers his hand. "Captain Donatello."

Her eyes briefly flicker to the edge of the building, but taking a breath, she accepts the hand. "Mister Smythe."

…

"Why in the hell did I agree to this," Doctor Quinn Fabray-Berry demands, shifting uncomfortably in her chair. "I'm insane. I need to be committed. And someone needs to take this baby away before it starts to realize it has two insane mothers."

"No one is taking the baby away," David promises, sprinkling some vinegar on his salad. "We'll do everything in our power to make sure of that."

Sighing, Quinn shakes her head as she pours more Tabasco sauce on her steak. "Doesn't want to ruin the dancing aspect of her career. What, so I'm supposed to spend the rest of my life fat?"

"I guess so," he says, cheerfully, trying not to wince as she glares.

"Anyway," she says, hissing slightly as she reaches behind and presses her back, "how'd the meeting go?"

"About as well as you can expect," he answers. "Captain's suicidal, Hampton's homicidal, and Smythe is without a doubt a charming sociopath."

"No progress," she says, glumly.

"No progress," he confirms, taking a sip of his green tea.

"Don't take this the wrong way, Karofsky," she says, causing him to look up in surprise. In high school, when he was a closeted jock, bullying everyone she cared about, he was Karofsky; now, it's very rare for her to call him that. "I'm going to reluctantly recommend you be made a full part of the case. No more sitting half-way across the city, listening through a bug and watching through high-powered binoculars."

"There's a wrong way to take that?"

"I'm going to recommend it if you can swear to me that your involvement with L.E.A.P isn't going to compromise your ability to do your duty."

"Quinn," he says, sharper than he means to.

"I know," she says, quietly. "But I need to put it in my report, and without your assurance, I can't."

Sighing, he says, "We're talking about mobsters, Quinn. Do I think Smythe makes some good points? Yeah, I do, and I've never made that a secret. But there's a legal way to change things, and then, there are organizations that use terror to make money and gain political power. If narcotics suddenly became legalized, the Smythe-Fitzgerald clan would move onto the next lucrative item on the black market."

"Okay," she says, softly. There's a brief smile, followed by her groaning and clutching her stomach. "Damn it. Wheel me to the bathroom, and then, call the nearest divorce lawyer you can find. Screw the bastards who legalized gay marriage; they did this to me."

"Right," he says, knowing better than to laugh. As her pregnancy's gotten further along, it's gotten harder for her to wheel herself, but she still refuses to get a motorized chair. Sometimes, however, she likes being dramatic for the sake of being dramatic, and this is one of those times. When she's genuinely having problems instead of simply wanting to order people around, she'll try her hardest to manage without help, only relenting if it becomes absolutely clear she can't.

He wheels her to the accessible bathroom. While she's in there, he calls Rachel Berry-Fabray and tells her it might be a good idea to have some chocolate soda and a copy of Les Misérables on standby.

…

"I think I might be made a full part of the Smythe-Fitzgerald case," he tells Kurt Hummel over the phone that night.

"That's wonderful, David," Kurt says, warmly. "I'll make some lamb with I get back, and we can celebrate."

"Not if you come back with a baby," David responds. "How's it going?"

"I'm here for my show, not to adopt a baby."

"Uh-huh. If Quinn and Rachel's baby goes missing, you're the first one I'm going after, buddy."

"Making sure the child starts off his or her life in style is not a sign of baby-craziness."

Laughing, David says, "How's the show going?"

"Terrible," is the dry reply. "I've dealt with three of them rapidly losing weight in the last two weeks. Which, aside from countless hours in clothes adjustments, means I also have to worry about whether they're healthy enough to walk. I think I might have volunteered a personal meeting with Mercedes if one them will stop yo-yoing," Kurt confesses.

"Didn't she like Russia the last time she was there?"

"Now that she has the triplets, it's a bit harder for her and Sam to leave the country on a moment's notice."

"Good point," David says. "Look, I've taken up enough of your time. I'm going to go have a beer, and then, start studying. Gotta make sure they don't find a reason to throw me off the case before I even get fully on it."

"I'm happy for you, David. I'll call you the day after tomorrow."

"Break a leg with your pre-show."

They hang up, and David goes to the fridge, only to find it empty of beer.

Right, he thinks with a sigh. Speaking of diets, he'd decided to cut beer out of his.

"Screw it," he mutters, grabbing his house key.

…

After finishing his beer, he starts to check his phone as he leaves, only to feel a jolt.

"Sorry," he automatically apologizes, eyes falling on the red-stained white shirt. "I'll-"

He freezes.

Standing in front of him is Sebastian Smythe.

What in the hell is a mobster doing in this neighborhood?

"It's no problem," Smythe says, smiling as he grabs a napkin from a nearby table. "Did I spill any on you?"

"No," he answers, fingers firmly poised on his phone. There's no indication the two of them bumping into each other was anything but a legitimate accident, but if Smythe somehow knows there's an agent working on the case around here, or worse, if he knows David is the agent in question, things suddenly took a very bad turn.

Nodding, Smythe says, briefly reaching over to David's shoulder, "Take care."

He starts to walk away, and before David can think, he says, "Let me buy you another drink."

"Okay," Smythe agrees, giving him a quick once-over. As they go to the bar, he says, "Cranberry for me, tonight. I'm Sebastian Smythe," he says, offering his hand.

"Nice to meet you," David replies as he shakes it.

Chuckling slightly, Smythe accepts another drink from the bartender and inquires, "Is that your subtle way of saying you're not interested, or are you one of those men who never gives a real name?"

The realization he's absolutely screwed hits David very quickly. Apparently, Smythe is flirting with him, and aside from the whole part where the other man is a mobster who may or may not be here specifically because of the newest case, there's also the fact that David cannot flirt. He can't smoothly respond to someone flirting with him.

"David Karofsky," he says, hoping that isn't a huge mistake on his part. "And neither. I'm the type of man who doesn't get hit on by people whose drinks I've accidentally spilt."

Smiling, Smythe asks, "Why?"

"Because I can be a very awkward person," David answers, honestly.

"All the easier to make you blush," Smythe says, raising his glass. "It's been awhile since I've managed to do that to someone."

Ordering a soda, David asks, "So, what do you do?"

Obviously, Smythe isn't going to confess to being part of organized crime, but at this point, David is either dead or just a blushing moron Smythe is using as an ego-booster. Why not take the small chance Smythe will brag about his role as head of the Smythe-Fitzgerald crime syndicate, allowing David to arrest him?

"I'm more-or-less a trust fund brat," Smythe answers, a hint of self-mocking in his voice. Body language shows he does find his answer humorous. Interestingly, there aren't the typical signs of deceit. "My mother's company is in the transportation business. Pharmaceuticals, herbs, that sort of thing. I've been put in charge of a small branch, but it's more of a figure-head job than an actual one. You?"

"FBI," David answers, watching closely.

Interested, unafraid, and unfortunately, too ambiguous to tell if Smythe already knew, he reads.

"Please," Smythe says with a small sigh, "tell me you're not Vice."

"The FBI doesn't have a Vice department," David says, intrigued by in that reaction. "But no, I don't usually handle cases involving drugs, prostitution, or gambling. I'm a profiler who specializes in body language."

There's no way he's coming out of this alive, is there?

"Oh, yeah? What's my body language telling you right now?"

"That you're very amused, and that if I'd answered yes to the Vice question, you'd have walked away. Most people who hate Vice generally have a less-than-innocent reason."

"Politically, I'm an Independent," Smythe answers. "I believe in the legalization of drugs and prostitution, the right to unfettered reproductive rights, and I don't object to paying higher taxes when it comes to social programs. My mother's been suspected of transporting illegal narcotics in the past, which comes with the territory."

"What doesn't and shouldn't come with the territory? I have a baby cousin. When he was fifteen, he got his first boyfriend, brought him down to meet the family, and the local Vice squad decided that since they couldn't make anything stick to my mother, they'd take these two fifteen year old little boys off the street, illegally detain them, and deny them food, water, and bathroom breaks."

"The boyfriend didn't call his family when he was supposed to, we couldn't find either of them, and once we finally got the boyfriend back to his family and made sure our kid wasn't severely traumatized, guess who no longer had a boyfriend? I don't appreciate what law enforcement did to homosexuals before the gay rights movement gained momentum, and I am beyond pissed that the reason my baby cousin had his first breakup was due to servants of the United States' government deciding they'd punish some 120 pound, freckle-faced kid who couldn't tell the first thing about the family business if his life depended on it because they weren't able to find anything worth wild on a grown businesswoman."

Well, when he puts it like that…

Sociopathic is on Smythe's file. Sociopaths are often good at manipulating others, and some easily learn to control their body language. Microexpressions are different, but David knows he's nowhere near an expert in that department.

Sociopaths often don't trigger people's gut reaction of wrongness.

Despite knowing all this, David still finds himself believing that Sebastian Smythe's story is completely true. Obviously, he's not admitting that Vice was right to suspect his mother, but David can't help but think his offense truly is at the fact some cowboy cops needlessly put his completely innocent family member in the middle of the crossfire. Remembering his earlier words _the civilians we go after are the same type the state goes after_, true or not, he has to give credit for remaining consistent in his claims.

"Got it," he says, giving him an apologetic look. "If it helps, the youngest person I've ever taken into custody was nineteen, and the suspect had proven to have no problem cutting people with a twelve-inch switchblade."

"Enough small talk," Smythe declares. "Have I convinced you to come home with me, or do I need to bow out while I'm ahead?"

Some part of him does realize this is an incredibly bad idea, and the justifications that helped shove kids into lockers and throw slushies at them are refusing to make an appearance. If he does this, there's not going to be any realization that he did a very stupid thing. He knows, providing he lives, he's about to do something wrong and idiotic and potentially self-destructive.

"I have a roommate," he says. "He's out of town right now, and I promised him I wouldn't leave the apartment after two a.m. unless it was an emergency. It'd be my luck his sketches and mother's jewellery would be stolen or destroyed the one night I didn't. If you want to come over, though-"

"Fair warning: I'm not leaving until after I get breakfast."

"We'll have to go somewhere to get breakfast, because I don't eat it, and right now, my refrigerator has bottled water, yogurt, and half a slice of four-week old pepperoni pizza, but I don't have any objection to that."

Chuckling softly, Sebastian (might as well start mentally calling him by his first name) finishes his drink and says, "Lead the way."

…

Sebastian has a small, sensitive scar on his stomach. "What happened," David inquires, fingers carefully studying it.

"Liver transplant," Sebastian answers.

Amazed, he watches as Sebastian's body tenses, showing fear and sadness. "I was fourteen."

When he starts to withdraw his fingers, Sebastian grabs his wrist. "It doesn't hurt. I just have a hard time thinking about that time in my life."

Leaning down, he kisses the scar, running his tongue over it, causing a groan in Sebastian, his hands going for David's hair.

…

As David's getting dressed, Sebastian's cell phone rings.

Sighing, Sebastian dips down digging it out of his pants. "Hello, Jordan. This had better be-"

There's a noticeable pause, and David watches in fascination as Sebastian starts quickly grabbing clothes, almost tripping a few times as he curses. "Tell me someone's killed her! What idiot- Oh, right, I did. Yeah, I'll be there in fifteen minutes, twenty at the most. Call my parents, get Rosa to Washington, and find make sure Austin's okay. Also, find out if it's legal to encase someone in concrete and throw them in the river."

With that, he hangs up, and before David can react, grabs his phone. "I have to go," he says, briefly looking up. "I hope you don't think this is me trying to make a smooth exit."

"No, I can tell it's a genuine emergency," David answers, prying his phone away. "Stupid to ask, but is everything okay?"

"Not in the slightest."

Sebastian's kiss is warm, deep, and far-too-short. "Call me."

"I can't always tell when you're serious, so let me make it clear: There is no circumstance, ever, where the law will overlook you tossing someone in the river with cement boots."

Smirking, Sebastian grabs his coat, shaking his head as he goes. "I'm serious about wanting a rain-check on that breakfast. Thanks for the night, Agent Karofsky."

And with that, he's gone.

Going through his phone, David finds everything in order with the exception of _Smythe, Sebastian_: (_231)-454-0977_.

…

"Hello, David," Rachel says, brightly. "Come in. We have actual bacon."

"I'm not hungry. Quinn threaten to divorce you if you tried serving the fake stuff?"

"Worse," Rachel answers, cheerfully. "It's okay; I realize our child is likely to follow a more traditional American diet, just as I did until I was seventeen."

In the dining room, Quinn takes one look at him and sighs, heavily. "Rach, I need some privacy with David. And if you hear screams, turn on some music and start singing, honey. I promise I'll make Finn come clean up the mess."

Once Rachel is gone, Quinn demands, "What did you do?"

Wordlessly, he hands her his cell phone.

"Smythe, Sebastian," she reads. "Is this real?"

"Yeah. Or at least, as far as I know."

"How'd you get this?"

Desperately hoping the music won't be opera or classical, he answers, "He put it in this morning, after he spent the night at my place."

"Oh, holy- Tell me he was at your place for some reason, any reason, other than the fact you slept with him!"

"I slept with him."

Quinn grips her knife very tightly, and David waits for the music.


End file.
